


A Stranger Kindness (The Life is a Broken Winged Bird That Cannot Fly Remix)

by ashes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:02:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashes/pseuds/ashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It's impossible not to notice him, hunched nearly in half on the corner of the bed, staring and rubbing his thumb across the back of his phone as he mumbles different numbers in bursts of ten. He mumbles over and over again just under his breath -- this big string of numbers that makes no sense at all. The housekeeper reminds herself what the boss said before he left: "He's not gonna hurt ya. He doesn't know what's goin' on. If you don't say anything to him, he won't even notice you."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stranger Kindness (The Life is a Broken Winged Bird That Cannot Fly Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Life is a Broken Winged Bird That Cannot Fly](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8630) by clex_monkie89. 



> [Life is a Broken Winged Bird That Cannot Fly](http://clex-monkie89.livejournal.com/831572.html)
> 
> is a gorgeous piece of fic -- go read that. Right now. I'll wait. 
> 
> Thanks to clex_monkie89 for letting me remix it. I don't know if I'm doing this remix thing right, but coming at the story from another character, but I hope it's enjoyable!
> 
> Also [on DW.](http://bessemerprocess.dreamwidth.org/213373.html?thread=1157501#cmt1157501)

It's impossible not to notice him, hunched nearly in half on the corner of the bed, staring and rubbing his thumb across the back of his phone as he mumbles different numbers in bursts of ten. He mumbles over and over again just under his breath -- this big string of numbers that makes no sense at all. The housekeeper has been avoiding this block of rooms for weeks now, after seeing him around and listening to him rant aloud to himself; but her number was up. She reminds herself what the boss said before he left: _He's not gonna hurt ya. He doesn't know what's goin' on. If you don't say anything to him, he won't even notice you._

The plate clinks slightly on the nightstand and his head snaps up. She freezes, meeting his panicked stare. The bags under his eyes are dark, like someone smudged them with a big brush, and he has the watery bloodshot look of a guy who hasn't slept long enough. She clears her throat and straightens her apron. "Food," she says. 

He nods, one curt motion, and goes back to the phone. She moves quickly to clean up the mess of the previous day -- the linens were done two nights ago, so she's not going to ask him to move. There's too few food wrappers, and yesterday's plate of food is only half-eaten. His clothes are a messy pile in the corner of the room. They have the musty, soapy smell of clothes left in the washer too long; the top shirts are damp to the touch. "Did you forget to dry these?" she asks, keeping her words quiet and low. He takes a moment to stop talking to himself, another to look at her as though he's not sure what she's asking. "You washed your clothes today?"

"Yes," he says, finally, sounding like he doesn't exactly know how words work. Five quarters, one scoop of soap, loosely piled clothes -- just one machine."

Her hand still on his damp laundry, she swallows. "Would you like me to dry them? They're cold."

Even though he still looks confused, he also sags his shoulders as though suddenly relieved. "Please, yes, thanks." While she grabs a bag from her cart and loads the wet clothes, he goes back to staring at the phone. He finally seems to understand that he had it wrong; instead he's sitting with his thumb firmly on the seven. Thirty digits, in blocks of ten, but his thumb stays firmly on the seven key while he speaks.

"Do you need to call someone?"

"My brother," he says. He's sweating now, and his face in drawn in pain. "I think I called yesterday, or maybe I'm going to call tomorrow, but I don't have his number. I used to have his number in my head. I used to have his voice in my head."

She forces a smile as she rolls the bag onto the bottom of her cart. Before she leaves, she turns back and covers the phone with her hand. He recoils, breathing in deep panicked gasps. "What's your name?"

It takes too long for him to answer -- as though he has to think long and hard before he says in the most broken voice, "Sam."

"It's two in the morning, Sam," she says. "I bet your brother is asleep. Eat your dinner and get some sleep." 

"Can't sleep. Everything is different when I wake up."

She gently slides the phone from his grasp and sets it next to his food. "It'll help you remember. Your brain need rest."

When she returns before dawn he's asleep on top of the covers, still in his shoes and jacket. He ate most of dinner, but he's holding the phone again. Now his thumb is on the eight. She considers checking his contacts, but surely he already looked there for his brother. She wouldn't even know who to call. Instead she puts his folded clothes in the dresser drawers; she leaves one open so that he'll see where they are. Her hand dips into her apron pocket. The guy in room seven always tips well when he brings his hooker around. 

The front desk is empty when she slides the bills into the cash box and changes Sam's balance in the ledger.


End file.
